The Night of the Dream Come True
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: A continuation of "The Night of the Man-Eating House." Jim, Arte, the sheriff, and their prisoner have stumbled across the real Day manor. Arte previously dreamed of the horrors inside. Can he prevent them from becoming reality?
1. Prologue

**The Wild Wild West**

**The Night of the Dream Come True**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! Since the season 2 episode **_**The Night of the Man-Eating House**_** ended with the group apparently coming upon the exact house Arte spent most of the episode dreaming about, it seems that his dream might have been a warning or premonition. And one would think that once he realized everything was the same, he would become worried about preventing the events of the episode from playing out. And I want to prevent the sheriff from dying! Hence, this fic. The sheriff was played by an actor very dear to me, William Talman, and since the fellow needed a name, I have given him William's middle name in his honor.**

Something felt wrong as soon as the strange old house came into view. It was all too familiar—the two stories, the white pillars, even the ivy clinging to the walls. But Artemus pushed back his misgivings, even as the door creaked open and his heart gathered speed.

_No,_ he balked. _No, it couldn't be true. It couldn't be just like my dream._

And he walked ahead until he came to the doorway and passed through into the cobweb-laden parlor. Above him, the blue chandelier loomed with real or imagined malice. The others gathered around, Sheriff Whitney bringing up the rear with his lantern.

"It doesn't look very inviting," Jim said flatly.

A cold chill stabbed Arte in the heart. "It looks worse than that," he said under his breath. Everything was identical. It was impossible, but it _was_ the same house that he had spent a restless night dreaming about. Even the dialogue they had spoken before coming inside was the same.

Did that mean that everything would play out the same as in his dream?

He whirled to face the others. "We shouldn't be in here!" he burst out. "We have to get out _now!_"

Jim stared at him in disbelief. "Arte, what's wrong with you? I admit, the cobwebs aren't the greatest décor, but they've never bothered us on missions before."

"It's not the cobwebs!" Arte retorted. He marched in determination towards the door. "We're going to be prisoners in here. The sheriff is going to die! Day is going to unleash rats carrying the bubonic plague all over the state!"

He missed the way the convict Day went board-stiff. And Jim and Sheriff Whitney were appalled and disturbed, to say the least. Sheriff Whitney sidled up to Jim, still holding the lantern. "Are you sure he's feeling alright?" he said in a loud whisper.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," Jim said, brushing past him.

The door creaking shut of its own accord caused all of them to turn their attention to it. "There's no wind," Sheriff Whitney gasped. "What's causing that?" He started at a loud series of clapping sounds and turned to look with wide eyes. "And them shutters; they're closing all by themselves!"

Arte ran up to the closing door. It slammed shut the rest of the way, leaving him to strike it in frustration with his palms. "It's the house itself!" he cried in despair. "It's locking us in, just like my dream!"

Jim went up to him. "Wait, what?" He stared at his fellow agent and best friend. "Arte, this isn't like you."

"I know it isn't, but this isn't any ordinary house!" Arte shot back. He rattled the knob in desperation, to no avail. "This is the Day family manor. I dreamed about it last night. This place is just like it in every detail, right down to the cobwebs!" He hit the door one more time as he turned back to Jim. "Remember that woman you heard me calling for?"

"Caroline," Jim said in surprise.

"Right," Arte nodded. "Well, she's our esteemed prisoner's mother! She's connected to this house somehow. Every time we hurt the house trying to escape, she, the house, _something,_ cries!"

Sheriff Whitney squinted at him, the unbelief quite clear in his blue eyes. "Hurt the house? What kind of nonsense talk is that?" he exclaimed.

"Aha, and you said that too!" Arte said, waving his forefinger at the shocked lawman. "Now that we're locked in here, everything I saw is probably going to play out. Maybe the sequence will be different, but it will still happen!"

Jim had taken a few steps back during Arte's tirade. Now he was standing, thoughtful, as he crossed one arm over his chest and supported the elbow of his other arm, holding his hand to his chin. Arte had indeed called out for some woman named Caroline off and on throughout the night. And when he had awakened he had asked if Jim believed in ghosts. Of course Jim had said No.

Now it seemed that they were standing in the very house Arte had dreamed about, and everything else Arte had seen was happening. If Jim had not known Arte for as long as he had, he would be inclined to dismiss all of this as utter nonsense. But considering how normally levelheaded and scientific Arte was, and how increasingly panicked and hysterical he was becoming, Jim was growing concerned.

"Why don't we ask Mr. Day about this?" he spoke up at last, gesturing to their grizzled prisoner.

"Oh, he'd never admit to any of it," Arte objected.

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Gordon!"

Again the trio turned to stare. Despite having been stricken with swamp fever, Day was now standing firm and erect. His eyes glimmered with hints of insanity.

"I don't understand how or why, but you gained knowledge of my plan to return the state of Texas to Mexican rule. And now that we're in this house, Mother will never let any of you leave. Yes, Sheriff, you will die. And so will you, Mr. Gordon, and you, Mr. West. Your fates have all been sealed!"

He burst into peals of mad laughter. And even as Jim, Arte, and Sheriff Whitney watched and listened in astonishment, the faint sound of a woman crying reached their ears. The two noises intermingled and echoed eerily off the old walls. At their peak, the lantern suddenly went out, plunging the house into darkness and silence.


	2. Act 1

**Act One**

A dim glow lit up the pitch-black room, eerily illuminating the faces of the occupants. Sheriff Whitney had turned the knob on the lantern, his eyes wide and filled with bewildered fright.

"What happened?!" he exclaimed. "Day's just disappeared!"

"He's being sheltered by this house," Arte said. "He could be anywhere! And unfortunately for us, we probably won't find him any time soon—unless he wants us to."

Jim let out a discouraged sigh. "Alright. Let's just take a break for now. I never thought I'd be saying this, but Arte, maybe it's time we heard about your dream."

"I never thought I'd need to tell about it," Arte said ruefully. He glanced at the blue chandelier with trepidation. "How about we go in here to talk?" He walked to a pair of double-doors further along in the entryway and opened them with care. A long cobweb hung in the doorway, a most unwelcome host. Arte stepped into the room, Jim and Sheriff Whitney following close behind.

Just as Arte had known, it was the same room in which they and Day had stopped in his dream. This was where he and Jim had tried to break out of the house by damaging the outside doors and then the walls. It was where the house, or Caroline, or whoever, had first cried.

And it was where they had first seen her portrait. There it was, hanging just where Arte had previously viewed it.

"Now, see? _That_ is Caroline Day," he declared, pointing at the image of the beautiful dark-haired woman.

Jim wandered over to it. "So that's the lady controlling this house," he said.

"No one could control a house," Sheriff Whitney objected.

"Well, something strange is going on, Sheriff," Arte countered. "Surely you have to realize that."

"Sure," the sheriff frowned. "I'm not stupid. I just figure there has to be some other explanation for it. Maybe Day and this mother of his are playing us for fools. And say, if what you said about them rats is really true, shouldn't we be looking for him to stop him?"

"Oh, they aren't set to be released until noon tomorrow." Arte sighed, pacing the floor. "Look, I'll tell you and Mr. West all about what happened in my dream. Then we can go around and see if we can find where Caroline Day is hiding her son."

And so he began to explain. He told everything, from the weird orbs and falling chandeliers to Day's escape and Sheriff Whitney's death when he gave chase. He talked about the diary hidden behind the painting in an upstairs bedroom and what it had yielded concerning their prisoner's past.

"Just supposing that diary actually is there, it tells a story of how Day's father was organizing a revolution and our Day took the blame for him," Arte said. "The only problem is, they were apparently really working on the plot together."

Jim nodded. "Why not go up there and see if we can find that diary?" he suggested. "Maybe there's some other clues in it that we didn't see in your dream."

"It couldn't hurt," Arte said.

The trio turned, trooping out of the drawing room and back into the entryway. "Hold the lantern up, Sheriff," Jim directed.

Sheriff Whitney obeyed—just in time to see the front door open, admit a glowing orb, and close again.

"What's this now?!" he cried, beginning to raise his gun hand.

Jim grabbed his wrist. "Don't shoot," he scolded.

Arte stared at the floating and flitting orb, transfixed and disturbed all at once. "They say orbs are one physical manifestation of ghosts," he breathed. "Of course, I never had any reason to believe such a thing before, but after last night and tonight . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Sheriff Whitney was gaping at the unsettling sight. "If it's a ghost, what does it want?" he exclaimed. "You said that Caroline Day person was already in here, controlling the house."

"That's a good question," Arte realized. "At the time I dreamed this part, it seemed like it was Caroline, but how could it be?"

Jim stepped forward. "Let's ask it." He kept his gaze fully on the orb as he spoke. "Are you Caroline Day?"

If he had been expecting a literal reply, it didn't come. The orb jerked and flew upward and then vanished. At the same moment, the crying started again.

"Something is very wrong here," Arte frowned. "It doesn't make sense! Are there two spirits in this house?"

"I don't care how many spirits there are," Sheriff Whitney sputtered. "We came here to get Lawrence Liston Day back to prison and that's where he's going to go."

Arte gripped the older man's shoulder. "Be careful what you say, Sheriff," he warned. "Remember, Caroline Day killed you when you chased her son upstairs."

"You said you found all the blood drained out of me," Sheriff Whitney retorted. "That kind of thing just ain't possible!"

"It seemed like Caroline took your life and gave it to Liston to extend his," Arte said. "I'd really like more than anything to believe that my dream was nothing more than any other silly and pointless dream, but the more we see, the more I know that just isn't true. Whatever my dream was, it was telling me about what we were going to find here."

"Let's get back to looking for that diary," Jim interrupted. "Maybe we can wrap this all up quickly if we locate it and read the full story of what happened here in the past."

"I'm not sure, but let's give it a try," Arte said. "We go upstairs and then to the bedroom at the end of the hall to the left." He reached for the lantern. "I'll take that, Sheriff, and go first."

"Yeah, maybe you should, since you know what's gonna happen and all," Sheriff Whitney said nervously.

Arte sighed. "I wish I did," he said ruefully. "Things aren't happening in exactly the same order, although maybe if I had kept quiet, they would be. I just hope we can prevent some things from happening at all."

"Like me dying," Sheriff Whitney gulped. He walked behind Arte, while Jim brought up the rear.

"Exactly like that," Arte agreed.

Jim stayed alert as they traveled up the web-laden stairs and down the lonely hall. The crying had stopped again, but the feeling that eyes were watching them was almost constant. Maybe Day was hiding in one of the rooms, observing them as they ventured through his old home. It wasn't a pleasant thought, albeit Jim would prefer that over thinking that they would have to deal with ghosts. He knew how to fight a human. How in the world would they fight something intangible?

The doors at the end of the corridor opened by themselves, causing Sheriff Whitney to jump a mile. Arte, on the other hand, was not surprised.

"This happened in my dream too," he said. "Caroline Day was very anxious for us to find her diary."

The room was just as it had been in his dream, right down to the dust and web-covered vanity table, chairs, and bed. The picture of Lawrence Liston Day as a young man hung on the wall, presumably covering the diary's hiding place.

"Who's that?" Sheriff Whitney blinked at the picture.

"Either her husband or our escaped prisoner in better days," Jim mused.

"It's Liston," Arte confirmed.

The painting swung open, revealing the diary. Jim walked over and took it out, intrigued to see something else in reality that Arte had dreamed about the night before.

Arte came over, holding up the lantern as Jim skimmed through the book. "Well?" he asked. "I see the lady's grammar hasn't improved any from my dream."

Jim didn't crack a smirk. "It's all like you said, Arte," he replied. "She tells the whole story in here—her husband being the real traitor, Liston lying and taking the blame for him, and his father dying in a hunting accident three years later." He looked up. "You know, my question is, why didn't she immediately take this diary to the authorities at that point and try to get her son out?"

"Maybe she died before she could?" Arte suggested.

"Maybe," Jim said noncommittally.

"Well, what else are you thinking of?" Sheriff Whitney wondered. "Surely she wouldn't have just left him in there if she had a way to get him out and there wasn't any reason left for him to lie about being guilty."

"She could have tried to get him out and they wouldn't believe her," Jim mused. "They could have thought she wrote this entire diary after her husband's death, just to give her son a reason to be innocent."

"That's possible," Arte agreed. "Maybe by now, since there's very likely different people in charge, Caroline hopes that they'll believe what the others wouldn't."

Jim searched the remaining pages to see if there was anything else. "There's still the problem of your saying that the senior and the junior Days were in a plot to destroy Texas together," he frowned. "If that's true, Liston is still a threat and can't be allowed to go free. But there's nothing in here about Caroline Day knowing of such a plan."

"Maybe she didn't know," Arte said. "However, after her death, she could have found the laboratory downstairs."

"And maybe that's what we should be looking for now," Jim said. "Day might be down there."

"In my dream there was a trapdoor in the hallway that we fell though and ended up in the cellar," Arte said. "But in reality that wouldn't make sense! We should have fallen onto the first floor."

"Unless there were two trapdoors, one on each floor, directly aligned with each other," Jim suggested. "We should be cautious in any case."

"How did you fall through?" Sheriff Whitney wondered. "Did the ghost cause it?"

"I kind of had the impression that Day flipped a lever and made us fall," Arte said.

He looked around the room. "I'm kind of surprised that the doors haven't closed on us again," he remarked. "Caroline didn't like it one bit when we said we had to take her son out of the house. She didn't like it when we tried to make her realize that he was insane, either."

"But this time around, Day apparently admitted to his plans right before he disappeared," Jim said. "Caroline has to know about it now, even if she didn't years ago."

"And maybe that's why she's letting us move around free?" Sheriff Whitney still looked tense. "I don't know that I believe all this ghost stuff, but I know I don't like it."

"I don't like it either," Jim said. "But so far, things have gone better than in Arte's dream, at least. Let's find our way to the cellar and maybe we can stop Day tonight, without his mother interfering. Maybe she'll even help us."

Arte slipped the diary into his pocket. "Oh, how I wish I could believe it will be that simple this time around," he sighed.


	3. Act 2

**Act Two**

It was both a relief and a surprise to not only make it back to the main floor, but to locate the cellar door without interference from Caroline. Nevertheless, Arte was highly tense and confused. It was strange that she wasn't blocking their way. What was on her mind? Surely she didn't _want_ them to take her son out of the house and back to prison. Still, maybe she knew that he had to be stopped from carrying out this abominable plot against the state of Texas.

"Everyone be careful," Arte warned, gripping his gun as he went ahead of them down the stairs. "If he's down here, he knows we're coming. He'll be waiting for us, maybe with some bubonic rats."

"That still sounds like complete nonsense talk," Sheriff Whitney objected. "And if he's only tryin' to kill off the Gringos in Texas, doesn't he know that the rats ain't gonna discriminate? They'll get rid of everybody!"

"Insane people rarely make sense, I'm afraid," Arte said.

Jim nodded. "Either he really hasn't thought it out that far or else he wants to eliminate everyone, feeling that the people of Mexican descent in Texas probably want it to remain a state and don't deserve to be part of his new Texas order."

"You are correct, Mr. West."

The group froze at the sound of Day's voice, echoing eerily in the cellar. And, just as before, it was strong and vibrant, with no trace of swamp fever or other illness.

Another lantern came on, in the center of the cellar. Several others around the room began to light in quick succession, revealing Day standing majestic in the middle. He was still old, but certainly not feeble.

Arte clutched his gun all the tighter. "Reasoning with you got us absolutely nowhere in my dream," he said. "I don't suppose it will help any better in reality."

"I am still bound and determined to carry out this plot," Day replied. Every lantern flickered unsettlingly. "Texas is going to belong to Mexico again!"

"Day, look at things logically," Jim protested. "Do you think Mexico will even want it back if you destroy the population with something as deadly as a plague?"

Arte looked at him in surprise, but nodded. "That's true. You'll probably just turn the entire state into a wasteland that everyone will be afraid to touch!"

"I'm putting it through a refiner's fire!" Day snarled. "And you, none of you, are going to be able to stop me!" He reached for a lever on the wall.

"Look out!" Arte yelped.

A panel opened and, triggered by the movement, several arrows flew out at them. Immediately the group leaped in various directions, none wanting to be hit.

Unfortunately, that was not going to work for everyone. Jim's eyes widened in pain and he grimaced, collapsing to the floor. An arrow protruded from his back.

Arte looked back at the thump and Day's laughter. He could scarcely believe the sight that met his eyes. _"Jim!"_ he cried in utter, heartbroken horror.

His mind raced. Was there no way to prevent a death on this journey? If the Sheriff didn't die, would it be someone else? Was that why Caroline hadn't stopped them—she had known this would happen and she had _wanted_ it to happen?

Sheriff Whitney stared as well. "Oh no," he gasped. "Mr. West!"

"And that's only the beginning of what I have in store for you in here," Day grinned. "You're defeated. You'd best retreat now while you still can. Take your friend's body with you."

Arte got to his feet, glowering in outrage and dismay. "You won't get away with this, Day," he snarled, as Caroline's sobs suddenly echoed through the musty room. "I promise you, if Jim dies, you're going to see a side of me that no one should ever see."

"I'm looking forward to meeting you in battle, Artemus Gordon," Day answered. "Perhaps you will be the first to suffer death by one of our rats."

Arte's lip curled. "It couldn't be any worse than suffering death by the rat already loose." With that he bent down, taking hold of Jim's arms.

"Is he dead?" Sheriff Whitney asked with alarmed, wide eyes.

"I don't think so, but let's wait to examine him until we're out of here," Arte said. "I don't trust Day from here to the clock. Sheriff, help me get him upstairs."

Swallowing hard, Sheriff Whitney carefully took hold of Jim's legs and rose, unable to take his eyes from the cruel arrow.

Arte, moving backwards towards the stairs, tried hard _not_ to look at it. "Come on, Jim," he whispered. "After everything you've come through, you're not going to let this stop you, are you? You're going to be alright." _You __**have**__ to be alright._

Every part of him was screaming that this was not real, _could not_ be real. It was another all-too-realistic dream that he was going to wake up from. And yet, he really knew the horrible truth. This was not a dream at all.

Jim remained limp and lifeless as they struggled up the stairs. Sheriff Whitney watched nervously while Arte continued to walk backwards. They both knew that if he slipped, they would all fall and Jim could be hurt fatally . . . if he hadn't been already.

"Don't bother walking all the way to the living room," the Sheriff said when they reached the top. "Let's just go in the nearest room."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Arte replied.

To his relief, the door opened by itself, revealing a bedroom.

Sheriff Whitney stared. "More of this ghost magic?!"

"Let's just be glad she's on our side right now," Arte said. "Maybe she wasn't trying to leave the way open for us to walk into that trap. Maybe she had no idea what her son was going to do to us." He hurriedly led them in and gently laid Jim on the bed.

Sheriff Whitney helped and then let go. "So what now?" he worried. "We don't have anything to treat something like this!"

Arte examined the arrow, mentally measuring how deeply it was in Jim's flesh. "I'm going to have to pull this out," he said, grim. "Jim's just lucky it's not in very far."

Jim suddenly came to life, grimacing as he reached behind him to grasp the arrow. "I know," he grunted. "Sorry, Arte, but it was better for Day to think I was dead."

Arte barely processed Jim's words. "Jim! What in the world are you doing?!" he cried. "You can't take that out by yourself!"

Jim began to do so anyway, going carefully and slowly so as not to tear anything new while easing the arrow out. "It's alright, Arte. I don't think it's in too far."

Sheriff Whitney gaped with goggle eyes anyway, until the arrow came free and Jim breathed heavily, setting it down on the mattress.

Arte shook his head and leaned over to examine the wound. "You're just extraordinarily lucky, Jim," he sputtered. "One of these days, it's not going to hold out!"

"I'm not sure it is now." Jim's voice was quiet and filled with pain.

"Now, don't be overdramatic!" Arte took out a clean handkerchief and pressed it against the wound to stay the flow of blood. "It seems to have missed anything vital. You're going to need to rest, somehow, but you should recover just fine. Honestly, Jim, I'm surprised at . . ." But he trailed off. The color on the cloth was not just red. He turned it over, just in time to see a strange, dark powder absorb into the blood.

Arte was certain he went pale right about then.

"You know it too." Now Jim spoke matter-of-factly, yet regretfully.

"Poison." The earlier bitterness slipped back into Arte's voice.

"Day wasn't going to take any chances." Jim pulled the arrow back to him and studied the tip, but to no avail. No powder remained.

"Isn't there an antidote or something?!" Sheriff Whitney cried.

"If Day made one, he'll never let us have it," Arte snarled.

"Caroline might," Jim pointed out. "If she knows where it is."

Caroline was still weeping, presumably in despair over her son. In desperation Arte looked towards the ceiling. "Caroline!" he called. "Caroline Day. You can see what your son has done. He's going to poison all of Texas. And he's starting by poisoning Jim! We're going to try to stop him from unleashing the rats, but if Jim dies, that's a murder charge right there. You don't want that for Liston, do you?"

Caroline sobbed harder.

"Caroline, if you know where the antidote is, please find a way to tell us!" Arte cried. "I am _not_ letting Jim die! We don't even know what this poison is. He might not have much time left!"

"I'm sure I don't," Jim mumbled. "And I could still bleed to death before the poison can take me."

Arte stiffened, quickly snapping to. Shoving the used handkerchief in his pocket so as not to get the rest of the poison into Jim's system, he started to tear his shirt to use against the still-bleeding wound.

Jim clutched the quilt, trying to will himself to stay conscious and alert. The pain from the wound was bad as it was, but undoubtedly the poison was making it much worse. His vision was beginning to blur and it was difficult to keep his thoughts straight. He shut his eyes tightly, hoping to keep his mind attentive even if he could not see what was going on around him.

"So what're we gonna do now?" Sheriff Whitney worried. "If you're hoping the ghost'll help you, it's not looking likely. And Mr. West is looking real bad off."

"Oh, I don't know!" Arte cried. "If we knew of another way into the cellar, maybe we could launch a surprise attack. But if we go right back the way we came, who knows what that madman will throw at us next!"

He jumped a mile when it felt like something nudging the coat pocket with the diary. And it was all the more eerie when he turned to look and the Sheriff was not standing near him at all.

"What is it?" Sheriff Whitney asked.

"Take the diary out of my pocket," Arte ordered. "Caroline may have just tried to tell me that there _is_ a clue of some kind in there!"

Doubtfully, Sheriff Whitney gingerly lifted the old book out and set the lantern on the nightstand in order to turn the yellowed pages. "So should I just start at the beginning and go from there?" He eyed the many filled pages in dismay.

"Yes!" Arte insisted. "Stop at anything that talks about the cellar or a secret passage, anything that might be relevant."

"That could take hours!" Sheriff Whitney exclaimed.

"If you can read Caroline's writing alright, it shouldn't take too long," Arte returned.

"Arte, what's going on?" Jim mumbled. "Why do you think Caroline was trying to tell you something?"

"Someone nudged my pocket when no one visible was there," Arte said. "Ordinarily I'd be rather unsettled by such a display, but right now I'm hoping that the touch was benevolent."

"Here's something," Sheriff Whitney called. "Maybe. She's talking about a back hallway on the ground floor and a door that goes downstairs and comes out through the . . . clock?" He squinted at the book as though not sure he was seeing it correctly.

"Ohh, and the clock is what frees the rats!" Arte exclaimed. "It's something about the chiming mechanism that opens the doors in the wall. I don't know what might happen if we tried to come through it."

"If they're supposed to be released at noon, I don't think coming through the passageway would set the clock ahead that many hours," Jim said. "We could be prepared to break it if necessary."

"We?" Arte frowned down at Jim. "You are most certainly not coming with us!"

"I'm not going to lie here waiting to die, either." Jim clenched his teeth. "Just patch me up, Arte. I can make it. I'll fight to my last breath to see Day stopped, even if I can't get the antidote."

Arte's eyes flashed with sickened horror at the very thought that Jim might not live out this escapade. But he knew it was tragically possible. And he knew Jim would never spend his last moments lying down, if he had any strength in him to move at all.

_Dear God in Heaven, what am I going to do? _he sorrowed in his mind. _If the dream was meant as a warning, why wasn't I also told that __**this**__ could happen? This is too horrible, far worse than how things played out in my dream. Naturally I don't want any of us to die in this Hellhouse, but if someone is always going to, I don't want it to be Jim! Never Jim._

Of course, he knew Jim would rather it was him than someone with them, like the Sheriff. But that knowledge did not make it easier to deal with. Arte hadn't wanted any of the horrors from his dream to play out in any way, shape, or form. And he certainly hadn't wanted any new horrors, either.

Still, it was a little late to be bemoaning what was.

"Alright," he said in last in resignation. "We'll all go. And we won't give up until we have the rats stopped and the antidote in our hands."

"Or die trying," Jim supplied.

"And that's a distinct possibility," Sheriff Whitney exclaimed.

Caroline cried as if in agreement.


	4. Act 3

**Act Three**

Jim moved slowly and painfully down the hall, placing his hand on the wall to help with balance. Arte, who was on Jim's other side, watched him in worry and concern. "Jim . . ."

"I know, I shouldn't be doing this," Jim interrupted. "But it's better than waiting to die."

"You're not _going_ to die!" Arte burst out. "The Sheriff and I would go through the passageway and find the antidote and bring it back."

"How will any of us even know what it is when we get down there?" Jim wondered.

"Well . . . maybe Caroline knows," Arte said helplessly. "There has to be a reason why she wanted us to look in the diary. Surely she wouldn't if there was no hope at all."

"What if the hope isn't what we're thinking?" Jim replied. "We're only guessing that she meant for us to go down this back hallway." He looked ahead to where Sheriff Whitney was holding up the lantern and feeling across the wall for the secret door.

Arte blinked. "What are you saying, Jim?"

"Arte, get the diary out again," Jim implored. "See if there's anything else in it that might be important." He grimaced. "It could take the Sheriff a while to find the door."

Arte bit his lip, but complied. As he took out the small book and leafed through it, squinting from both the dim light and the atrocious spelling, something suddenly caught his eye.

Jim could see it in his expression. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Arte said slowly. "It's an entry dated after her husband's death. Listen to this.

"'I'm all alone now. Charles is dead and Liston is in prison for his father's crimes. The house feels so cold and empty. And yet . . . there are times lately when it feels as though I'm not alone at all. The house groans oddly, and not only from the sounds of settling in, as all old houses do. Sometimes I find doors open where I know I closed them, or lights on after I _know_ I blew them out. Am I going mad? Or is Charles trying to tell me that he hasn't gone far, even in death?'"

Arte shivered, closing the book again. "That's really not something I wanted to read under our present circumstances. Can't anyone rest in peace if they died while having a connection to this house?"

Jim was staring off into the distance. "That's interesting, Arte. So the unusual activity in this house didn't start with Caroline's death."

"But what does it prove, Jim?" Arte exclaimed. "How does it help us?"

"It tells us that there's probably more than one ghost at large." Jim gasped and doubled over as the pain shot through his veins. He could feel his heart was racing abnormally. He doubted it could continue for very long in this manner.

Arte watched helplessly, wishing with all his heart that he could do something to ease Jim's suffering. "Haven't you found that door yet?!" he yelled to Sheriff Whitney, most unnecessarily.

"These things take time," the Sheriff frowned. "Especially with you reading all that hocus-pocus about the house just not behavin' like an ordinary house!"

"If only Caroline would just open the passageway for us!" Arte bemoaned.

Jim perked up. "Maybe that's it."

"What's it?" Arte blinked. "Asking Caroline to open the passageway?"

"Maybe she doesn't because we're really not supposed to go that way," Jim said.

At that moment, Sheriff Whitney finally hit upon the hidden spring. The wall gave a tremendous, eerie groan as it creaked inward. "Well, whether we're not or what, here it is," he announced.

Arte looked to Jim questioningly. Jim struggled to straighten, peering into the darkness of the passageway beyond. "Let's try it," he said. "But if when we reach the clock it looks like going through it might only make things worse, we'll turn around and come back." He gasped, hunching forward again from the pain of the poison coursing through his blood.

Arte reached to support his friend, his heart twisting in anguish. "I don't think you could make it to turn around and go back, Jim," he said quietly.

His thoughts continued to tumble over themselves as they slowly advanced into the new corridor. It was cold and empty; not even the spiders had managed to make it through the wall into here.

"This must be the only part of the house that isn't covered by cobwebs," Jim said weakly.

"And I never thought I'd say this, but I can't say whether that's a good thing," Arte retorted.

"It's just fine for me," Sheriff Whitney replied. "Oh, here's the steps goin' down. It looks like the inside of the clock right at the bottom, built into the wall!"

Arte kept his hands firmly on Jim's shoulders while they started to descend. The younger man was flushed and shaking, although he fought to hide it. It was hard to say what horrible poison Day had crafted down in his laboratory. Whatever it was, was slow enough to cause tremendous agony and suffering before death . . . and fast enough that Arte feared Jim would be dead within the hour.

_Why did we even come in this house?_ he berated. _I knew what I dreamed. Of course I thought it was nonsense, but when we came upon the exact house, I should have been more worried. I wasn't until we got inside. Now, if it's indirectly my fault that Jim's . . ._

He trailed off as they arrived at the bottom. Jim was blearily looking at the gears and other workings of the clock by the light of Sheriff Whitney's lantern. "What do you think, Arte?" he asked. "You're the technical genius. Does anything seem out of place?"

Arte frowned, turning his attention to the study of the intricate marvel. "I don't see anything that doesn't belong," he said carefully.

Sheriff Whitney moved forward. "Hey, there's a little hole here, right under the face of the clock. You can look out into the basement."

"What do you see, Sheriff?" Jim asked.

"Nothin', really," was the reply. "It looks like Day's up and left. Maybe he won't be back until it's time to get the rats."

"Does the diary tell how to open the clock from in here?" Jim slumped against Arte. He didn't want to admit to how weakened he felt, but if Arte wasn't holding him up, he was certain he would crumple to the floor. He blinked, fighting to keep hold of his vision.

"It said there was a catch on the inside of the face, right on the other side of the 6," Arte reported.

Sheriff Whitney pushed in that spot. The clock swung open, leaving them free to move out into the laboratory.

"So now what do we do?" the Sheriff worried. "There's all kinds of vials and doodads here, but nothing's marked. If we just trust that ghost to point us to the right one, she might not!"

"I think she will," Jim replied with a grimace. "She doesn't want her son to be a murderer."

"Yeah, and maybe that other ghost feels different," Sheriff Whitney shot back.

Arte stiffened. "That's true," he said. "If there _is_ another ghost, and especially if it's Charles Day, he might want something entirely opposite to his wife."

Jim's balance was suddenly lost, in spite of Arte's grip. He crashed to his knees with a gasp.

"Jim!" Arte bent over him, trying to help pull him up to regain his footing, but it was no use.

"Arte . . ." Jim shuddered violently. "Look through everything there. Maybe there is some kind of a system. Day has to know what's what, after all. And if you absolutely can't find anything, try to get Caroline to . . . to . . ." He fell hard against the heavy table leg.

"Sheriff, help me get him over to that cot," Arte cried.

Worried, Sheriff Whitney set the lantern on the table and hurried to the Secret Servicemen's aid. While he struggled to again lift Jim's legs, Arte held onto his upper torso, being careful of the wound.

"Hold on, Jim," he implored. "We're going to find the antidote. You just have to hold on a few more minutes until we can locate it!"

Arte's voice was far away to Jim's ears. The pain and confusion were sweeping over him with a vengeance. Would this poison induce delusions before killing him? Would he slip into unconsciousness for a time before actually dying? Or would death come swift and sudden, without warning?

There wasn't much time to think on those thoughts. Everything was growing muddled. Vaguely Jim was aware that he was being set down gently on the old cot, and that Arte was worriedly looking at him and maybe saying something, but then all ability to process was lost and Jim sank back, being swallowed up by the bed.

Arte stepped back from the bed, looking and feeling sick himself. "Oh Jim. . . ."

"He's not sensin' anything now, is he?" Sheriff Whitney said in concern.

Arte didn't answer. Storming to the table, he frantically started to lift every vial, flask, and other container, desperately seeking some sign of identification. The Sheriff was right; there didn't seem to be any. There was no way to know what was what.

In desperation Arte pulled out the diary and again leafed through it. But moments later he snapped it shut with a _bang_ that startled Sheriff Whitney. If there was any mention of poison other than the black plague, he couldn't find it. And whatever Jim was suffering from, it was not the black plague.

"What are we goin' to do, Mr. Gordon?!" Sheriff Whitney exclaimed. "Are you gonna call on that ghost to help us, like Mr. West said?"

Before Arte could answer, another voice spoke up. "No. . . . I . . . I can tell you which one it is."

Arte spun around in shock. It was Liston Day's voice, but instead of firm and strong, it was wispy and weak. He was emerging from the corner of the basement, gripping the wall, his eyes both wild and pained.

"What are you talking about?" Arte retorted. "You're the one who did this to him! Do you really think either of us would trust anything you said now?!"

"You don't understand. _I_ didn't do it!" Day protested as emphatically as he could.

All around them, Caroline began to cry again. The sound was chilling. But as Day heard it, it seemed to give him strength. He struggled to straighten up, speaking to the woman in Spanish.

"Day, I'm about to lose my best friend and my patience," Arte snarled. "Speak in plain English and say what you mean!"

Instead, a disturbing and cruel laugh rumbled up from Day's chest. He drew himself up to his full height, sneering at Arte and Sheriff Whitney and the semi-conscious Jim lying on the cot.

"_I'm_ the one who did it, Mr. Gordon," he crowed. "But I am not Liston."

Caroline sobbed harder.

"_Not_ Liston?" Arte wracked his mind for the possible explanation of that. "Who are you then?!"

"_I_," he replied, very deliberately, "am Charles—Carlos—Day, Liston's father!"

Sheriff Whitney stared. "What's goin' on here, Mr. Gordon? I don't understand it!"

Arte was staring as well, shaken by this revelation. "One of two things," he said. "Either Liston has developed a second personality, or . . ." He swallowed hard, barely able to believe what he was about to suggest. "Or, Heaven help us, Charles Day has possessed his own son!"


	5. Act 4

**Act Four**

Jim, lost in his hallucinatory state, was staring off at the wall and barely processing any of what was going on. When the form of a woman began to appear in front of him, however, he definitely saw that.

"What . . . what's going on?" he mumbled. "Caroline Day?"

"Yes," the woman sobbed. "Please, you must help my son!"

"_Help_ him?" Jim understood that enough to be incredulous by it. "He's trying to set the black plague across all of Texas. If he really managed to do that, it wouldn't just stay in Texas; it would spread who knows how far. I'm not feeling too eager to help him when he's starting out by poisoning me, either."

"No, no!" She shook her head. "It was Charles' plan to do all of that. It wasn't Liston's! Liston just took the blame for his father's scheming in 1836 so that his father could go free and continue helping people as a doctor."

"I got that part," Jim said. His mind was clearing as they talked, and he worried, wondering about that. Was he so near to death that his spirit was already slipping out of his body?

"After Charles died, he stayed here and kept trying to figure out a way to unleash his plan anyway," Caroline explained. "He wanted me to do it. That was why he kept making his presence known by opening doors and turning on lights and . . . other things. But I love Texas as it is. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't commit mass murder for him or anyone else. _I wouldn't do it!_ And now that Liston has escaped and come here, Charles is trying to make _him_ do it!"

"Why did your son escape in the first place if this wasn't his plan?" Jim frowned.

Caroline shook her head, turning away to begin pacing the room. "So many years of being convicted guiltlessly, when his father didn't even live for more than three of them, finally took its toll on Liston. He still didn't want to reveal the truth and smear his father's name, but when he saw a chance to escape, he took it."

"And immediately came here," Jim put in.

She spun to face him again. "It was _home!_" Her voice was strangled, her eyes despairing.

"But surely he knew that he would be looked for here," Jim objected.

"You have seen how . . . special this house is, Mr. West," Caroline replied. "Charles and I could have kept Liston safe here. No one could have entered without our permission."

"There are holes in that idea, Mrs. Day," Jim said. "What would he even have to eat?"

"We would have worked out what to do. Anyway, Liston wanted to come home again, even if he would be caught. And when he arrived and learned of the laboratory's true purpose, he wanted to destroy it because he knew Charles might still reach out from the grave to enact his plot. Only Charles hasn't given him the chance!"

"Why didn't _you_ destroy it, if you knew it was here?" Jim retorted.

"I didn't know what it was really being used for until I was dead!" Caroline exclaimed. "That horrific sight, coupled with the knowledge of Liston's sacrifice for Charles, is what bound me to this house. I wanted so badly to believe that all these wrongs would be made right someday, if I just waited. And when Charles refused to move on in the hopes of bringing his plan to pass, I couldn't leave him here alone to do it."

"You say that Charles is trying to force Liston to go through with his scheme," Jim said. "How? What is he using for leverage?"

"Liston himself!" Caroline cried. "Don't you understand, Mr. West? The madman you have been talking to since your arrival is not Liston; it's Charles! My husband took over my son's body almost as soon as he walked into this house!" She burst into sobs again, helpless and despairing.

Jim stared at her. Here was a woman who had known tragedy for much of her life . . . and afterlife. He wanted to believe this was all a bizarre delusion brought on by the poison, a fantasy that had no basis in truth. And yet, on some unsettling, supernatural level, it _could_ be true. It wasn't any stranger than anything else that had been happening—just more disturbing.

"Supposing this is all true," he said at last. "What can I do about it? Your husband poisoned me, even if your son didn't. And judging from how coherent I've been during our discussion, I don't think I have much time left, if any."

"We are talking in the spirit," Caroline admitted, "but you are not dead yet, Mr. West. You can still be saved. Liston is fighting for control of his body so that he can save you. It _has_ to be Liston; even I don't know which vial holds the antidote to this foul poison! But if he can succeed and even so much as point out to Mr. Gordon which is the right one, Charles will become more ferocious than ever. Once you have the antidote, you must do everything you can to save my son!"

"How?" Jim pressed. "Arte and I aren't exactly exorcists."

But at that moment the conversation was interrupted by an agonized, bone-chilling scream from Liston. "It's that one, Mr. Gordon!" he choked out, pointing with a shaking finger to a red vial near the edge of the table.

"This?" Arte grabbed up the container in an instant.

Liston gave a weak nod. But then his face contorted in anguish and Charles took over again.

"You traitorous whelp!" he boomed. "You've got no right to help them. It was supposed to be you and I bringing Texas's glorious reclamation to pass! It was always supposed to be you and I!"

"I never wanted any part of that!" Liston exclaimed. "I thought we were working on something to stop diseases, not bring them!"

Arte tuned them out as he took a fresh needle out of a pouch and filled it with the red substance. Then, praying desperately that this was the right thing, he rushed to Jim's side and pushed back his sleeve, searching for a vein.

"Come on, Jim," he whispered frantically. "This has to work. I'm not going to believe you're too far gone. I know you're still in there. You're still fighting." Finding what he sought, he gently but firmly shoved the needle into the vein and released the antidote.

"Mr. Gordon!" Sheriff Whitney yelped. "Hurry up. We ain't got much time!"

Vaguely Arte was aware of the sounds of Charles Day roaring in fury and beginning to tear up the lab. Forcing himself to look away from Jim, Arte turned to the other scene in grim shock and alarm. "Sheriff, don't!" he ordered, seeing Sheriff Whitney's hand floating towards his gun.

"What are we gonna do?!" Sheriff Whitney exclaimed, ducking as several vials flew past to smash against the wall. "How are we gonna stop him?!"

"In his state, Charles Day will probably just possess somebody else if you shoot Liston," Arte said. "Anyway, if Liston is truly innocent, he needs to be protected if there's any way we can do it!"

"I don't even know that I believe this possession thing!" Sheriff Whitney shot back. "It sounds like somethin' out of the Bible or the Dark Ages! As far as I'm concerned, Lawrence Liston Day is just showin' us the full range of his craziness!"

Arte was about to reply when he felt Jim move under his hands. He whirled back around to look. "Jim!" Hope sprang into his eyes. "Jim, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

Jim's eyes slowly opened. "Yeah." He blinked, as though surprised to realize it was true. "Yeah, I'm alright." He sat up, grimacing from the pain of the wound, but not the poison. "It worked, Arte! Day really did help us!"

"Oh Jim!" Arte smiled big, gripping Jim's arms in his joy. "Welcome back."

"It's good to be back." Jim looked to where Charles Day was demolishing most of the rest of the artifacts on the table. "Now the question is, what do we do about him?"

"I don't know." Arte shook his head in despair. "Knock him out, tie him down. . . . It would still only be a temporary reprieve, if Charles Day is really possessing his son's body. He could move to someone else."

"So we need to target the spirit and not the body," Jim mused.

Frightened as an old chair flew right at him, Sheriff Whitney shot at it. Splinters rained around them.

"You know, the Sheriff said something a minute ago that started me thinking," Arte said.

"Oh yeah? What was that?" Jim slowly started to get off the cot, testing his strength. Still weakened, he sank back into it.

Arte regarded him in disapproval and tried to hold him down by his shoulders to keep him from rising prematurely again. "He said it was like the Bible or the Dark Ages. Well, what I started thinking was, what if we could stop Charles Day by the same method used in the Bible?"

Jim looked up at him in surprise. "Commanding him to leave in God's name?"

Arte nodded.

"He could probably still come back sooner or later," Jim said.

"But not before we destroy everything that's part of his plan," Arte said. "With that gone, all he would be able to do is roam the house or the countryside. If he still doesn't want to move on from here, that is."

Jim considered that. "Try it, Arte. It looks like by now he's gotten rid of everything except what he needs to unleash the plague on Texas."

Arte nodded. "Alright then." He swallowed hard, hoping he didn't look as nervous as he felt.

Charles Day looked up as Arte stepped forward, his eyes wide and wild. He picked up one last, large container, ready to heave it and its contents right at Arte.

"Charles Day!" Arte yelled. "In the name of God, I command you to cease and desist! Leave your son Liston alone and depart from this house!"

Caroline was crying again. But she knew this was the way it had to be.

Charles roared in fury, managing to heave the flask as one last, defiant, hateful act.

"Look out, Arte!" Jim yelled. He leaped up, fighting back the pain as he tackled Arte to the floor. The flask flew past, smashing against the wall.

Free of his father's forced entry into his body, Liston sank to the floor, old and exhausted and suffering once again from swamp fever. Sheriff Whitney hurried to his side, remaining cautious in case he would become violent once more. But he did not.

"Say, we've got to get him out of here before anything else goes wrong," the Sheriff exclaimed. "But what are we gonna do about all them rats?!"

"We have to get rid of them." Clenching his teeth in pain, Jim started to back off of Arte, who was staring up at him in shock.

"You probably just saved my life, Jim," Arte gasped. "Who knows _what_ was in that flask. But now you've gone and got yourself hurt worse, haven't you?!"

Jim shook his head, kneeling on the floor. "I'm fine." He looked to Arte. "What do you suggest we do about the rats? We can't risk even just one of them getting out of that wall and off this property. Every one of them is already carrying the plague."

Arte nodded. "It's a stone wall, so fire wouldn't work," he mused. "I suppose we could blast it down, but there's always the concern that some of them might survive and escape long enough to spread the plague to even a few people."

"There's no way to slip any poison in there without running a much greater risk of them getting out," Jim replied. "If we had enough explosives to bring down the entire house, that would probably work."

"Bring down the whole house?" Sheriff Whitney looked up in shock at that. "We don't have that many explosives on us!"

Liston looked up blearily. "Destroy . . . the house?"

Jim told him, "I know how important this house is to you and your mother, but your father's plan makes it so we don't have any choice." He struggled to stand. "We'll stop the clock so it can't open the doors at noon. Then we'll leave here and return with enough explosives to flatten the house to the ground."

"That could take days. Weeks!" Arte exclaimed. "Who knows what will happen before then?!"

Jim looked to Sheriff Whitney. "Sheriff, do you know of any large caches of explosives in the area, maybe under the ownership of the military?"

Sheriff Whitney looked awkward and surprised to be put on the spot. "Well . . . there _is_ a shed not too far from Beaumont where I found a whole mess of explosives," he admitted. "I think they were left there by Snakes Tolliver. You know, that riverboat gambler?"

"We know," Jim nodded. "He was killed not that long ago." He limped to the clock with Arte's help and stabbed his knife into the face, preventing the hands from ever striking noon. Arte didn't mention that was exactly what Jim had done in the dream.

"We're still trying to sort out who has control of Snakes' empire now," Arte put in. "We knew he had some operations in this state, but we had no idea it was in this area."

"I think he liked to pick on small towns that he figured were too poor or too stupid to put up much fuss," Sheriff Whitney said. "But I was going to report the shed to the Secret Service and then Day happened to break out of prison right around that time. I thought he took priority."

"That's great, Sheriff," Jim said. "There should easily be more than enough ammunition amongst that. We'll take what we need for the house and confiscate the rest."

Sheriff Whitney finally managed to ease Liston to his feet. "We need to get Day to a doctor about that fever, too," he said. "And what'll we do with him then?"

"We'll go before the prison board with this diary," Jim replied. "We'll see that Lawrence Liston Day has the pardon he deserves."

As the group headed up the stairs and towards the front door, they were not detained by the ghost of Caroline Day. If anything, Jim felt that now she was more than happy to see them off. Her son would be alright. The nightmare was over.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes: Wow, I can honestly hardly believe I actually finished this story. Almost everyone who was reading it is probably aware it was giving me lots of trouble for years. Thank you for your patience and I hope you like how it's turned out.**

**Epilogue**

The explosion ripped through the old forest and echoed off the trees. As the Day house collapsed on itself and crumbled into fragments, Jim, Arte, Sheriff Whitney, and Lawrence Liston Day stood far enough away to watch it without being harmed.

"Again, we really _are_ sorry we had to do this," Arte said to Liston.

"That's alright," Liston replied, the sadness in his eyes. "It had to be done." Now that he was recovering from the fever and was clean-shaven, he didn't look so weakened and decrepit. He had a new lease on life and he intended to use it.

"The government will compensate you for the house," Jim said. "You'll be given enough money to rebuild."

"Rebuild. . . ." Liston gazed off into the distance. The word was amazing to him.

"Right on this same spot?" Sheriff Whitney wondered.

"Well, nearby, anyway," Arte said. "It might not be safe to build on the same site, not with all of the rats." He grimaced and shuddered.

"I'm sure the new Day home will be even better than the old one," Jim said with a sincere smile.

"You'll all be invited to the open house," Liston declared. "All three of you have helped me in ways I'll never be able to repay. I just hope . . ." He trailed off.

"What is it?" Arte asked.

"I hope that Mama will come to the new house, if she hasn't moved on yet," Liston said.

"I'm sure she will," Arte said. "She'll want to make sure you're settled."

But as he stared into the ashes of the home, he suddenly remembered something else from his dream. "Jim . . ." He looked to his partner and friend, his stomach beginning to twist in uneasiness.

"What is it, Arte?" Jim blinked.

Arte walked a bit away from the others and Jim followed. "I know this is going to sound insane, but . . . in my dream, the house was always able to . . . regenerate itself."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Regenerate itself," he repeated.

"I know how that sounds," Arte said with an embarrassed chuckle, "but that's what happened. We kept trying to get out and it kept repairing itself every time we tried."

"So now you're wondering if it will do the same thing now and rise from its ashes like the phoenix," Jim said.

"Well . . ." Arte scratched his head with a finger. "After everything else, can you blame me for wondering?"

"No," Jim replied. "But don't hold your breath waiting for it to happen."

Arte sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I'm surprised this experience turned out as well as it has," he said. "In the end, everything came together so well. And how about that Snakes, Jim? I never thought I'd actually be glad for anything he did."

"I didn't either." Jim waited, knowing that wasn't Arte's real topic.

Indeed, after a moment Arte completely sobered. "For a while there, it really looked like it was going to be over for you."

Jim looked at him. They were not often open about their feelings, but in this case it was understandable they would be. "I'm sorry you had to go through so much worrying about me," he said.

"Oh no," Arte shook his head. "I'm sure it was worse for you than me."

"It was bad for both of us, in different ways," said Jim.

"Sometimes I really wonder how we've managed to stay alive as long as we have," Arte said. "It seems like ordinarily, our number would have been up long ago."

"Someday it will be," Jim said. "Just hopefully not anytime soon."

Arte nodded in complete agreement. "I'll drink to that."

"By the way, Arte, that was pretty clever, how you figured out what to do about Charles Day," Jim noted.

"Oh well, I wouldn't have thought of it if it hadn't been for the Sheriff," Arte said.

He looked up as Liston took a few steps towards the remains of the house. "Don't get too close, Mr. Day," he cautioned.

"I won't," Liston replied. "Thank you all again. If you don't mind, I'm going to just stay here for a few minutes. The rest of you go on ahead. I'll catch up."

"Alright," Arte said slowly. "Don't be long now."

"I don't know how he can want to hang around there," Sheriff Whitney said as they left. "I know it's his home and all, but all those bad things happened there. And now it's in pieces."

"I guess the bad can never cancel out the good," Arte said.

Jim happened to look back as they were walking away. The sight of the house standing firm and new on its foundation stopped him in his tracks. It couldn't be! He knew what Arte had said, but it just _couldn't_ be!

"Jim?" Arte was looking back now. "Holy . . . !" He slowly came over, shocked.

"Say, what are you two so excited about?" Sheriff Whitney asked. When he saw the house in place again, he went sheet-white. "I'm seein' things!" he cried. "I know this whole case has been crazy, but this can't be real! Never in a million years!"

Liston was awed too. He slowly advanced on the house, disbelieving, amazed. The door creaked open, inviting him, welcoming him in. "Mama . . ." He smiled, at peace as he walked onto the stone porch and through the door, which shut behind him.

Arte swallowed hard. "At least the rats are gone. What wasn't burned is probably buried under the new foundation."

Jim slumped back. "I guess Caroline was right," he said. "This _is_ a special house."

Arte looked to him with a start. "When did she say that?"

"It's a long story." Jim lingered a moment before starting to turn away.

"Say, what is this?" Sheriff Whitney cried. "We're just gonna leave him in there?"

"For now," Jim said. "He has his pardon; he's free to be there if he wants to be. If Caroline brought the house back together again, it must be that she knows it's safe now. She wants to have a private reunion with her son. She didn't really have the chance before. Let's leave them to it."

Sheriff Whitney was still gawking at the sight. Finally Arte took hold of his upper arms and gently steered him away. "Let's go, Sheriff," he said. "We'll come back later for a visit."

"But . . . but . . . the house . . . !" Sheriff Whitney stammered, gesturing wildly.

"Yes, we know," Arte said.

In spite of the bizarre occurrence, Arte's heart was light as they walked back to the wagon that they had brought there. If his dream had been a warning, he and the others had been successful in stopping it from coming to pass. Jim and the Sheriff were still alive. The rats were destroyed. And Liston apparently had the happy ending he deserved.

All was well.


End file.
